Look Who's Stalking
by candysays
Summary: Buffy learned Spike is alive and did not take it well. At all. She's gone to LA to stalk him, but how will she hide her telltale vanilla musk? Warnings: Angst, fresh scents. Total crack fic.
1. Chapter 1

The lights in Walgreens were bright and strangely American. That was fine. It helped her think more clearly.

Each item in her basket was outlined in a flat fluorescent halo. Even through the jet-lag, the late-night LA world seemed clearer and slower than she remembered. Almost digitized in its edges. Even her sense of purpose was stronger and more focused. More than it had been all year.

She went over the items in her basket and checked them against the mental list she'd made on the plane.

"Tic-tacs. Check. Jack Nicholson black knit hat. Check. Black leather gloves. Check. Latex gloves. Check." She strolled over to the cleaning supplies aisle. Odor remover: citrus and enzymes for all natural odors—pets, child odors, smoke.

"That oughta cover it," she thought grimly.

She made her way slowly to the next aisle.

Shoe inserts, something to change the way your foot fell, a step corrector. She'd cut them down and fit them around her brand new, never-worn boots. Shapeless sweatsuits. Poly-cotton. Black.

Next aisle. Shampoo. Coconut. Had she ever used coconut? Wait—ooh. New section. Carefree Curl? Definitely never used because, after that brief mistake in college during the not-brief-enough mistake known as Riley, no curly hair. Besides. It looks like it's for . . . hey!

Black hair care. Who knew? She'd never swapped with the, what was it, three people she knew who might have used it? Kendra--Not much with the girltalk and then, well, dead. Rona—had she ever talked to Rona outside an inspirational speech? And then there was . . . Trick? Probably most likely to possess extensive knowledge of hair products—but not counted among "people she knew." _Because__**, **_as Buffy had learned for the five hundred millionth time—Vampires? Not. Human. Ever.

Robin Wood had tried to tell her.

Not about hair care for obvious reasons.

About vampires not being human.

She should have listened.

Deep breath. _Focus._ _Mission first, lack of diversity in my hometown and hair care history later. Ok. After two sleepless nights and one transatlantic flight, I'm getting a little punchy._ Buffy quickly threw a range of unfamiliar products in her basket and walked on purposefully. She paused at No-doz, her hand on the package. Her nose crinkled. _Eeew._ One night in college with Willow, studying for midterms, she'd been wired for days, and not in a good way. She'd dropped things, unable to think, and good as that part sounded, she needed to be able to think now. She let her hand fall.

She could do it with coffee. She could do shots of espresso._ Yuck_. Tough to face American coffee after Rome. Wait. Chocolate covered espresso beans. _Yum_. She ran her tongue over her lips and felt them dry to the point of cracking_. _Dumb airplane. If they could manage air pressure, why not a little humidity? Or mist the passengers. Like lettuce at the grocery. _Let us be lettuce. Hee._ She should write to the airlines.

That could wait too.

She needed to hold to her sense of purpose. The purpose almost squelched the rage although it still burned low and cold. The rage freed her from the searing pain and she was not about to let it go out. She licked her lips again. Ow—tangy. Blood.

Uh-oh. That's a problem. Add Chapstick and lip-gloss to the list. Maybe. . .blueberry flavored. She was sure she'd never tried it.

Next, perfume aisle. Chanel knockoff? _Too_ _Mom._ Fake Bulgari? Her eye caught on "Compare to _Obsession." _Perfect. She dropped it into the basket. _Too bad they didn't have_ _Eau de Single White Female_.

Last stop. She breathed deeply, fighting the revulsion. Feminine hygiene. She'd been over this a number of times, telling herself, they aren't _that _sensitive, and _you're_ not _that . . . _sensitive. She thought back, pulse quickening. If the thought of his eyes alone could do that, what if he touched her or hell--so much as looked her in the eye, head cocked, tongue curled—

She could feel the blush stealing up her cheeks, and the tingle down there. She looked around, making sure there weren't any vamps to notice that some girl was getting hot in front of the Summers Eve display. Okay, she squared her shoulders. Surely she'd faced worse things in eight years as the Slayer. Well, seven years as _the_ Slayer, and a still-confusing stint as _a_ Slayer . . . there must have been something worse.

But actually, right now, she couldn't think of a single thing.

_Island Splash. Gross? Summer Rain Grosser! Flower Mist?? _

Wasn't there anything that didn't seem to suggest the weird Harlequin version of exactly what she was trying to hide?

_Sun Blossom._ Fine. Goes with the whole irony thing. Moth to flame. Fatal attraction. _OK, subconscious, getting it. You can shut up now because there is no way I am not ten times hotter than Glenn Close, plus, not crazy_—just driven to buy potentially harmful feminine hygiene products_. __Douchebag subconscious. _Buffy suppressed a giggle. Wait_._ More feminine hygiene. Extra absorbent. Deodorant. Just in case. She made her way quickly to the checkout counter, hoping to God no one said anything.

* * * * * *

He'd gone and gotten a basement apartment. Closest thing to a crypt, she guessed.

Buffy tore off the brown wig and stuffed it in her purse as soon as she turned the corner out of sight of the demon bar. She was pretty sure no one had recognized her. Somewhere else, she might have stood out wearing big, dark sunglasses after midnight, but here no one had batted an eye, or—seven.

On tentacles.

What a scene. Wall-to-wall skin folds, tusks and slime as far as the eye could see. The lowlife junky-vamps in the corner had looked like a picture of health by comparison.

Whatever. She probably looked like she was on meth to them. Or was it mesc? Hopefully, no one would quiz her on her apparent drug problem because somehow? despite the nightly slaying, yearly apocalypse and BDSM vampire fetish, this neighborhood had her feeling like a sheltered Slayer from the suburbs.

She didn't look the part, she hoped. She'd applied blood-red lips, tons of rouge, and skin-tight leopard print skankwear. Plus, just in case anyone caught a glimpse behind her shades, she was still wearing the jetlag eye-bags courtesy of Delta and Surprisealiveagain!vampire.

She really hoped no one had recognized her. Not only because it would have blown the cover she'd shopped so hard for, but because it would have been a worse statement about her high school fashion sense than she could even begin to face.

Tonight, though, the skank look was working and she had worked it even harder. She had sidled up to demons, bought them drinks, gyrated, whispered sleazy naughties in their pointy, putrid ears. She fit right in. In all her years of fighting and pumping demons for information (_ow, echo) _she had never played them like this. . Her cover meant she couldn't beat the information out of them. They couldn't know she was the—_a_ Slayer—or at least, they couldn't know that _she_ knew. She had to do what _a_ Slayer would never do.Well. Except for Faith. But that's probably why she didn't change the "the."

Talk about confusing.

_A_ Slayer. Slayer, comma, a. But slowly, Buffy had begun to see how that little shift could work to her advantage. There must be enough Slayers around that any demons with honed senses had to get used to the tingling slayer presence set off. Although, as Buffy had surveyed the bar full of bleary-eyed, bug-ugly, strung-out scaly things, she hadn't seen much that was honed.

It didn't matter. She got what she wanted. With a sticky near lap-dance, she got one slime-demon to tell her that the white-blond vamp who fought his own kind had got an apartment. Another gave her the address. "See you later, big guy," she whispered wetly into the large, waxy ear of her informant. She was lying, of course, but she amazed herself with how far she would go to get the information she wanted. Waxy demon ear? No match for my skanky-junky-fu.

_Jesus. Did I really just think that? Xander and Andrew would be so proud. Wait. Stop. Clarity. Priority. Single-minded focus, and no distracting friends. Not right now. _

_Now: freedom._ She'd thought that philosophy stuff the Immortal was always spouting was beyond boring and pretentious, but now? Maybe it hadn't all been about shopping and bickering for the remote with him after all._ Beyond Good and Evil_. She was definitely starting to get it.

* * * * * *

Buffy felt a little less übergirl looking at the peeling, stained walls and burned carpet of her new LA home. The cheap hotel across the street from Spike's supposed new place had a room. Apparently they usually rented by the hour, but she made a deal on a nightly basis for one with a window view. She had figured her outfit would have her hitting high enough on the skankometer that she wouldn't raise too many eyebrows, but looking around at some of the other guests, she realized she looked Bel Air in comparison.

Who ever heard of a motel by the hour? People must be really poor, they couldn't even afford a whole night's sleep. She began to understand a different business plan from the smell of the room, and shuddered—but hey, she thought brightly, reaching into her Walgreens bag, who am I if not super odor-preparedness girl? She couldn't give up the room. It was perfectly placed if the demon had been right about the address. Spike's door was in sight. So, a little spritz of stale-semen-begone, and hello, citrusy goodness.

_Right after I write the airlines, I'll do the infomercial._

She closed the curtains, pulled a chair up to the window, and opened her suitcase. She took out the gray case and pulled out the night vision binoculars. _Thank you, Initiative. Still helping the world keep tabs on Hostile 17. _She had the special filters to cut down on the light flashing a warning off the glass. _Has anyone ever been more commando?_

Or psycho_, _a little voice spoke inside her head.

_Oh, shut up with the movie refs. Six months of Roman Holiday couch potato and you think you're all Ebert. This is so not _Psycho_. Wrong creepy hotel vibe. Think _Taxi Driver_.__ Look at the room. Jesus, __smell__ the room. But Jodi Foster-me? Not at all. Color me De Niro._

She settled in to her post, binoculars ready. "You lookin' at me?" she asked out loud.

"Nope." She almost giggled again, then steadied the lenses, focusing on the door across the street.

"Not this time. . ._pet_."


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy had been watching for hours, elbows buried into knees, hands clenched around the binoculars, shoulders hunched into the triangle of night she'd opened up behind the curtains. It couldn't be long now. LA pre-dawn was hovering above the buildings, brown fading to pink. _This color scheme? With the orange curtain and the beige walls and the brownish stains splattered across them? My corner of LA could use a major makeover. _

But just as she was wondering who would be getting the letter about _that_ civic improvement project, a pale light caught the corner of her eye and she froze. She almost missed it, going on 48 hours without sleep and she almost missed the one thing she'd come so far to see. Spike. Across the street, his cigarette winked as he fumbled for his keys.

He was here. Did he look different? His duster. His hair's the same. Blond. _Duh._ It was true. _Here, _not burned in a fiery sacrificial flame. Not Mr. Big Pile of Dust. Not a memory to inspire strength or regret or longing. Here and not with her. Here, after she'd forgiven him, trusted him, risked her friendships—hell, risked her friends—by putting him first, above everyone. He was here having found that ultimately, she wasn't worth the transatlantic dime.

It wasn't that she hadn't believed it before but seeing it was different. This believing took hold of her blood with ice. Her pulse froze, then stabbed, first with a knife-like happiness and then, just with a knife.

_Why? _It was a bad, bad word. Her hands went numb. She felt sick in her throat like when she found her mother's body and realized it wasn't alive. She couldn't breathe from asking why.

_Because we didn't—because I couldn't—? _

The tears did rise, she could hear a strange sobbing coming from somewhere connected with her body.

_Why did I have to be right about his only wanting the unattainable? I was wrong about a billion other things about Spike—and Angel—and Riley . . . . Couldn't I just be consistent and be wrong about that too? _

Buffy felt like she was being strangled. This wasn't what she came here for. She'd do anything not to feel this. Anything was better.

Was it better thinking he was dead? asked the little under-voice.

This thought seemed to cause a short-circuit. A little pop went off in her brain and she seemed to see a little flash. It helped her find some breathing room. She looked across the street to see the door close and the light come on around the edges of curtains. She relaxed then. In a perfect slow-motion, Buffy leaned back in the chair and looked around at the walls of her room.

The stains on the walls suddenly looked digitally clear and formed just the right patterns. Her breathing came easy now, and the pink brown stains of the sky out the window echoed the patterns on the walls in the room. All these patterns seemed to spell out one thing: she was right where she was supposed to be, cool and alone and in total control.

So it was true: Spike was back, and he hadn't called her, and even though he probably had some kind of fancy justification for it to make himself look good, she could see the writing on the wall. Even in the weird stain font.

The writing said: So. Betrayed by a demon lover? Shock much? not really. The writing said: Spike was all resurrected and maybe even a little choseny himself, but the fact remained. He'd tossed her away like every single other stupid man _or_ vampire that had ever got within two feet of her pants, let alone her heart. And this time, undead again or not, there was going to be hell to pay.

_Not lame-ass hell-dimension-spit-you-back-in-a-hundred-years hell. Buffy hell. _

—What about the beat-you-to-a-bloody-pulp-in-an-alley-an- leave-you-for-dead hell? That worked, said the under voice.

Buffy snorted. _Please. That was Hell for Buffy, and that's not what I mean. I did that out of weakness. It was about me, not him, and he knew that. Spike saw all that as foreplay anyway. And I was out of my mind, out of control—not like now. _

_I didn't even love him then._

_And no matter what he said then, he knew I didn't, because he kept coming back for more, kept coming back until—_

_Until I did. _

Love, forgiveness, vulnerability, sacrifice in a burning flame, loss, nobly carrying on and then—_and then Andrew lets it slip some drunken night in a bar._

"Joke's on you, Slayer_,_" she said out loud.

But now things have changed, and everyone, especially stupid surprisealiveagain!vampires, should be more careful. No one should be counting on some sacred calling to keep her from having her way with her personal life. Not now. She might be _a_ Slayer but the change meant she had time on her hands. She could take things slow with Spike. She was going to make him squirm like the roach she slowly squished into the carpet under her stiletto.

"Pop!" she said aloud. Her lips curved into a lazy half-smile as she settled back into the orange chair, night vision binoculars poised and ready.

* * * * * *

Spike fumbled the keys of his door, almost dropping his cigarette in the process, brain fogged from Jack Daniels and the effort not to think too hard. He opened the door and glanced with evident distaste at the orange indoor-outdoor carpeting, dampening to brown around the edges, almost bleeding into the brownish-grey stains on the brownish-pink walls.

Bloody hell, he thought, time to eat another decorator. "Not that I _would,_ mind you," he said out loud, to no one in particular. Certainly not to the powers-that-be, because he wasn't speaking to _them. _Not until they got their story straight. Ghost or chosen or evil law firm or go it alone or becoming human or souled vampire or just sold out. . .and all of it trying so hard to matter. And failing, at least tonight.

"But then," he sighed, sinking into the torn chair in front of the tv, "What could compete with all this?" He poured cold pig's blood into a chipped mug and used it as chaser to another swig of bourbon from the open bottle on the floor.

Word had it some strung-out-looking dark-haired bird was asking all kinds of questions about him earlier that night. "Human or vamp?" he'd asked, tensing. _Dru?_

"Human, dude, best I could figure, but _real_ comfy with any low-life demon who was claimin' to know thing one about you, dude."

Spike tightened his grip on the throat of the strangely bronzed vamp. "Don't _ever _call me that again."

"Sorry, dude—I mean, guy, but that girl was some kinda crazy. I mean, there was something off about her, like I could feel it. She was like, tingling. Or maybe just on meth. . .Seriously wacked on something. _Coulda _been a vamp. I was just hangin' in the back, like, cuz' I don't, you know, _know you, _except when you like, beat me up to tell you stuff. "

"Right. And if you want me to be able to continue doing that, which can only happen if you're not dust," Spike spoke slowly and quietly as he cocked his head to one side and looked at the vamp boy's limbs appraisingly, "you'll stick to that policy of not sayin' squat about me to anyone."

"Right on, du—oom. I love Doom. Great game, you play?"

"Yeah, when I get the—I mean, of course _not. _And where's a vamp get a bleedin' _tan_?"

"Spray-on, dude, it's the wave of the future, you want me to hook you up?"

Spike had dropped him on the floor in disgust without trying to get any more information. He had to get away before he dusted one of his best sources. If he ever got his hands on the genius who sired a surfer, though, that vamp would not be so lucky.

_Great. Strung-out meth-head, maybe human, maybe vamp. Looking for me. One more thing to look forward to._ Maybe, if his luck really held, it might be another psychotic rogue slayer.

He looked around at the walls of his room, his single bed, his tiny fridge, his particle board desk. "If these walls could talk," he sighed, "what stories they could tell. . .sat and drank, sat and drank, swore at the telly, sat and drank. Watcher's life's a bleedin' action flick compared to mine these days."

He looked at the walls again, allowing his gaze to linger on the upper left-hand corner near the air vent where there was a water stain that enough alcohol could convince him looked a little like Buffy. "Hello, pet, nothing like comin' home to the little woman, all wet and waitin' for me like that." He raised his glass to the dirty patch of wall. "Here's lookin' at you, kid."

Bloody wanker, that one, by the way. Lets the girl go off with the wrong guy even after he knows she loves him, and to top it off, he lies, says when she said it, _she _was lyin'—he throws it all away to save the soddin' world, gives _up_ the one girl he ever really loved, and to top it all off he teams up with some other formerly cynical bloke who had been working for an evil law firm . . . er . . . collaborating with the Vichy government. . .

"Which means I end up with _Angel?_ Bugger this."

He scowled at the wall. "I take it back. Not lookin' at you at all. And sorry, pet, you're a looker, but you're no Ingrid Bergman." Spike took another deep pull on the bottle at his side. "'Specially not when you're all grey and runny like that. Not to mention flat."

Spike ran his fingers through his hair and looked around his room once more. "What am I soddin' on about? If these walls could talk, they'd only say one thing: 'Whatever it is, if it's coming for _you_, mate, it can't be good.'"


	3. Chapter 3

For three days, Buffy had watched the comings and goings of the vampire across the street. She had slept in short, two-hour intervals, trying to time her sleep with his own, or with his absences. She'd lived mostly on yogurt from the seven-eleven but she hadn't been very hungry what with all the espresso beans and, eventually, all the coffee as well. Probably it wasn't healthy but there was no way her heart rate could sound _anything _ like normal.

She looked down at a stale half-empty cup on the floor. _Cold dead speed. Eew._

It had all been worth it. She had a good sense of his rhythms, which were not, as she noted with a certain satisfaction almost tinged with pity, too exciting. No one had come to see him. He slept late into the day and either went out at night, typical vamp, or in the day was picked up by a car with what she assumed was the same kind of treated glass she'd heard Angel had fitted the law firm with.

She still could not get over that one, Angel in the corporate world—had he lost his soul again? Careless. No. She had to assume that he was up to something at least ok there because otherwise Spike wouldn't. . . .He wouldn't be involved with anything--

Underhanded. Right. Spike. _And I think that because, yes, thank you _very_ much, I _am_ on crack._ _Three days in my skanky junky undercover, and I'm living the dream. _

Although, to be fair, just because he wasn't interested in her, didn't mean he wasn't still interested in doing the right thing. He still had his soul, according to Andrew, and he had died to save the world. Lots of good men weren't interested in her.

Like, apparently, all of them.

Back to business.

She unpacked the Walgreens' bags and spread her supplies out on the bedspread. She sorted out the ones she would need for the shower and placed them neatly on the rim of the tub. Off with the skanky-junky outfit, and on with the. . .she unwrapped the soap, studying the unfamiliar green and white stripes. "_Irish Spring. Fresh and. . .clean as a whistle." Coming right up. _

Buffy turned the water to hot. The strong water pressure was the one pleasant surprise of her luxury vacation accommodations.

Vacation. That's what she'd told Dawn. She hadn't told her about Spike. She hadn't told anyone. Hadn't wanted to know who knew. She just told Dawn that what with all the other Slayers now, she was going to actually go off for a week, just her, that she could do that. She'd be home soon. She'd check in on email, but just for one week, she wanted to be completely alone—not taking care of anyone but herself, answering to anyone, doing any duty, Dawn understood, right? She'd be ok with Andrew and the others? Dawn hugged her.

"Duh, Buffy. I'm eighteen. Get out, have fun. To you, not having any responsibility for a week must sound like . . . I don't know, Disneyland, except, that doesn't sound like fun so much anymore because. . .hey! I'm grownup—but not so grownup that some extra responsibility doesn't still sound like I'm getting away with something. Can I boss Andrew around more than usual? Can I not listen to Giles? Whee!" Dawn paused, "What about, you know, Immorto-guy? Does he know you're leaving?"

"Well, Dawn, I kinda called it quits. I mean, not that there was much to call. You know, we were just . . . club and couch buddies, really. But he'll be by, he and Andrew weirdly hit it off . . ."

"Sure, Buffy." Dawn ran a hand through her sister's hair. Maybe she'd find someone new this time . . . someone completely unconnected with her past, someone who would appreciate her. Someone with a pulse. _Could happen. _She smiled comfortingly. "I'll tell everyone you'll be back in about a week and not to look for you. You just go and be . . . you! And, um, check in so we know you're not dead again."

_Buffy. Go and be . . you. Sure, I'll do that. In a not at all way. _Buffy took the strange soap and lathered it in her hands, sliding the pale green foam over the body she'd almost forgotten the last few days. _Fresh as . . . Ireland. Whatever._

As the water pulsed over her body she could feel parts of it both relax and wake up in ways that were disruptive to the mission. The stream hit at her breasts and between her thighs for a moment, if she let it. As always, those sensations had their own visuals.

Images of his face on her, his hands moving over her, eyes wide, looking up in wonder or darkening, looking down in angry passion. She could feel his mouth move along the trails the water left on her torso. It was always, always his face, his hands. It didn't matter if she fought them off with shame and rage, as she had after that awful day in the bathroom, or encouraged them with confused hope, as she'd begun to those last weeks in Sunnydale, if she'd given in to them with sorrow or accepted them with wistful longing, as she had all those months since the end. These were the images of her body's arousal and they drove any others away. _Pictures of you, _she thought. Right. The Cure. Except there wasn't one.

It had been this way since the moment she first kissed his bloodied lips when she found out he'd stood up to Glory for her and Dawnie. Even before she died, before she came back wrong, before that night they brought the building down. He had been right. That part of her, he owned. And no one had been there since the first time he'd touched her. Not really.

Now that face, that body was back in the world, not wanting her anymore—at least, not enough to put up with her, wait for her, heal with her.

She trailed her own hand down between her legs, trying with a finger—And Wham! back on a bathroom floor, every muscle tensed against entry, vulnerable to the point of breaking, unbelieving, just like any other girl . . . and still his face, this one, the visual that cancelled all arousal. Instantly.

_That's right, Spike. You broke it, you own it. Bastard._

She turned the water closer and reached for her new coconut shampoo. She had a mission. Papaya conditioner. Out of the shower. Grapefruit moisturizer. Old Spice deoderant. _Nope, never been near that one._ Now. Spritz of Carefree Curl. . .but just to be safe, tuck it under the cap. _Oooh, that'll be attractive. Give new meaning to hat-head._

And on to the squicky bits.

_Eew. Can I just say again with the eew? _She shuddered. But sacrifices for the mission were what it had always been about for her. _Sun blossom._ Her dedication had, apparently, no bounds at all.

She slipped on first one sweatsuit, then another. Combat boots. Insoles. Latex gloves. Then leather. She looked in the mirror. _Yup. Puffy Buffy. Luckily, body image? not so much my problem._

Lipgloss. Mmm. She licked her lips. Fake blueberries.

She grabbed her black bag and made her way across the street. According to her calculations, Spike wouldn't be home for at least another hour. She didn't need much time.

Outside his door, she reached into the black bag and pulled out a large ring of keys. _Thank you, Initiative, once more with feeling. _After a couple of tries she felt the single lock give and she stepped into the room.

_Nice. Orange. Beige. Must be a theme. _She looked up at the walls. _Aww, we have matching stains. Sweet. We_ must_ be soulmates. _

I wonder if his send him messages, too? said the little voice speculatively.

"Now, don't be catty!" Buffy said out loud. _Anyway, I don't see that these have much to say. _

Buffy bent over the tiny fridge and looked inside. Packets of blood—but marked with a butcher's logo, so probably not human. In the tiny freezer, a frostbitten package of onion rings. And in the very back, what looked like a fairly archival container of fat-free yogurt. Frowning, Buffy reached in and pulled it out, because yogurt? So not Spike. She looked. Vanilla. Hey, that's my favorite! She looked at the date. Or not so much. Maybe he does have a girlfriend—or, did.

Or maybe he misses you, said the voice.

_Right, because nothing says I love you like superexpired fatfree yogurt. . . Why call when you could have that?? _

Buffy made her way around the rest of the room, the tour taking all of about ten seconds. She paused by the chair, noting the empty bottles, and the bed, which looked unslept in. She lay down a minute, looking up at the ceiling. _It's where he sleeps, does he think about me here? Does he ever dream? _She buried her head in the pillow, just for a moment. It smelled of him. God, she didn't think she'd ever smell that again. It was less smoky, more bourbony than she remembered. And no leather. Well, if he wasn't wearing leather to bed, that might be a good sign.

He didn't wear anything to bed, of course.

Fuck. Guess those precautions weren't such a bad thing. No telltale smells here. She twisted uncomfortably.

She started to look on the sheets for stains but decided she didn't really want to know. She smoothed the blanket and pillow and, paused to glance over the desk. Nothing but a few scraps of scribbles and a receipt or too (what, paying now?). No crumpled piles of letters saying "Dear Buffy, I didn't know how to tell you before but I am alive and I'm dying to see you. Please forgive me" or "Dear Buffy, I'm alive and I've been mystically prevented from contacting you, which is all I've thought about doing. I miss you. I love you. I always will." Butcher's receipt. Lovely. She stopped to rearrange a few things, just subtly—she opened the door and left. It was enough for now. Enough to suggest, withhold, confuse.

He should like that.

* * *

Ok, everyone, thanks for reading and the alerts and all . . . I know you're reading (stalker!Buffy tells me so, and she's watching). So, time for the next step. Reviewers get their very own cup of cold dead speed . . . eew . . . reviewers get a superexpired fatfree yogurt . . . reviewers get to be fresh as Ireland . . . oh, whatever. As soon as something vaguely appetizing shows up in the story, you can have all you want. But _please_, click the little button. So I can update enough to suggest, withold, confuse . . .


	4. Chapter 4

Back in her room, Buffy stripped the top layer of sweatsuit from her body and folded herself into the chair, turning toward the window to watch for Spike's return.

Her hope was, that he'd know something, someone, had been there, but not who or what. She went over her precautions in her mind again, trying to think if there were any bodily trace, scent, or sound she'd left unaltered. She couldn't think of one.

_What am I waiting for? I didn't even do anything. What if he doesn't notice anything? _

He had to. Vampire senses. If she'd learned one thing since being called, not much got past them—not even citrus.

It wasn't the most sinister of smells, but that was her point. Sinister was familiar. He knew what to do with sinister.

He should sense someone, but not her. But maybe something, somewhere would feel familiar. And maybe, just a little, something would ache inside him, and he wouldn't know why.

"And he'll say, god, the pain, the pain of the fake blueberry smell on my pillow, it's too much," said the undervoice. _Yeah, well, he might. It could be . . . highly toxic to vampires. Or, cause allergies. And you shut up already. _

"Yes, death was no match for the blond vampire, but the cornucopia of fresh scents proved too much for William the Bloody. The Scourge of Europe was on his knees at last." The undervoice had a definite smirk going.

_I thought I _told_ you to--_"You know, I have got to get out more," she said out loud.

A sudden explosion several feet from her elbow forced Buffy to postpone her internal dialogue to investigate. The smoke in her eyes made this difficult at first, but as the foul-smelling vapors cleared she made out the lines of a familiar robed figure.

"Now, I'm dying to know. Is it your winning combo of smoke and ugly that gives you your trademark smug look, D'Hoffryn, or is there product involved? Oh, and one other thing. What the _hell _are you doing in my room?"

"Slayer." The vengeance demon rubbed his grey hands together in an unmistakably smug gesture of anticipation. "Your own trademark bravado is holding up . . . fairly well under the strain. I didn't expect to see you again after . . . Anyanka's sad passing."

"Yeah, I know you guys were close, especially after you tricked her into sacrificing her best friend to bring a bunch of frat boys back to life." Buffy crossed her arms in front of her and shifted her weight to one side, cocking her head in mock-sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I didn't expect to see you either—_in my bedroom. _Don't you demons have _any_ sense of boundaries?"

"I understand your natural horror of anyone invading your personal . . ." D'Hoffryn looked around pointedly at the beige-orange squalor of her quarters. ". . . sanctuary. I understand how—_unseemly_ any kind of snooping must seem to someone of _your_ moral stature." The demon stared unflinchingly at Buffy and feigned repressing a small smile.

Buffy narrowed her eyes and fought the urge to look down. She hoped she wasn't blushing and compensated by tapping her foot in impatience. "And you would be here trespassing on my moral stature why, exactly?"

D'Hoffryn drew himself up to his full height and his gaze grew suddenly serious. "As it happens, Ms Summers, I'm here on official business, and thus my visit is fully sanctioned by all the rules of Demonic Etiquette." He looked at her curiously, giving her an opening.

"And this official business would be . . . selling Girlscout Cookies to pay for the robes? Because I didn't make any wish. Not one. I don't need help with vengeance. Remember? Slayer here. I kill my own demons. Maybe starting with Miss Demonic Manners, if she can't get her act together—even hellspawn should _call first._"

"Ah, Slayer. Always so . . . peppy under pressure. And indeed I must commend you on your recent—departures from your typical _modus operandi_. I agree that merely dusting the vampire who scorned you would be lacking in imagination, given your calling. Not to mention repetitive, since he's already died twice to little ultimate effect. Your current methods, though crude, show a flair for subtlety that I have every faith could be honed into a real appreciation for the most exquisite torture."

Now Buffy could feel her cheeks burning. "I'm . . . not interested in exquisite . . . any of that. If you're here about Spike that's, that's just, um . . . complicated, but not in any kind of vengeancy way. Again," she shook her head, trying to recover her usual sense of moral superiority while squashing any thoughts of exquisite torture and Spike at the same time, "Slayer. Not torturer."

D'Hoffryn smiled slightly. "If you say so. Although there's evidence to the contrary." He looked around pointedly again at the various drugstore detritus that littered the small room. He picked up a small tube lying on the floor and turned it over in his mottled grey palm. "Blueberry soufflé?" He grimaced. "Considering your victim has a particularly sensitive olfactory, an inspired choice."

"Hey. It may not be your demon cup of tea, but Spike might think it's—berrylicious. See? No vengeance. More like . . . potpourri." Buffy tossed her hair as D'Hoffryn snorted.

"Of course. A world of difference. Perhaps you're right . . . or perhaps the torture is more . . . self-directed. Is that a Summer's Eve box—"

"D'Hoffryn! Boundaries!! Do you _mind?_--"

In the corner of her eye, Buffy caught a slight movement outside the window and suddenly her entire focus shifted, her body poised and tense. Her eyes firmly fixed on the window, she gestured toward the door. "Ok. Nice chatting. Gotta go now. And I promise, if I have any vengeance needs? You'll be the first one I call. If you _leave now."_

D'Hoffryn beamed—in a grey, scowly, demon-like way. "My talisman will be on the bed next to the . . ." he looked at the tube. "Lemon Parfait Mousse. I'll look forward to hearing from you, Ms Summers, when you decide more clearly just what it is you're after. It's been a pleasure, as always."

"All mine I'm sure," muttered Buffy. Her eyes remained frozen at the window as another small explosion and brief wave of noxious fumes alerted her to her guest's exit. _And D'Hoffryn? Don't let the smoke hit you on the way out. _

The movement she thought she'd seen had apparently been a false alarm. The apartment across the way was still dark with no signs of unlife that she could detect.

Buffy sighed and flopped back into the chair. She ran her hands through her now stickily-matted hair. _Maybe D'Hoffryn has a point. What am I after? Do I even know? _

Another sudden movement outside his door caught her eye. She stiffened and turned, putting the binoculars to her eyes. She watched transfixed as the streetlights dimly silhouetted his form against the building as he dug around for his keys.

_That's Spike, fumbling for his keys._

The door across the street open and the dark form pushed its way through it, pausing briefly before slamming it shut behind him.

_That's Spike, sensing something's different. That's Spike, already feeling uncomfortable. _

_This is me, watching him._

The edge of light came on around the edge of the curtains, and she could see the familiar silhouette moving restlessly behind them. Buffy settled into her chair.

_That's Spike, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. And this is me, still watching him. And he doesn't know I'm here. Yep. There's the fun, alright. _She grabbed her phone. _I think I'll order a pizza. _

_* * * _

As soon as Spike pulled the door open, he froze. He couldn't say how, but something was off.

Of course, something was off with his whole unlife: he was recently resurrected, the one person who'd helped him and he'd actually liked had been burnt up by a smurf-colored ex-god, he was living in a moldy basement flat with orange carpeting and working at an evil law firm run by his arch-rival while his great love was snogging an age-old poser in a great city where they had good coffee.

_Right. And I was thinkin' something was off? _

He stood still another moment—nothing moving or breathing that he could hear—and then closed the door behind him and turned on the light. No one there, but—he sniffed at the air. It smelled—citrusy. And tropical.

_Flat smells like bleedin' fruit salad._

This strange, unmistakable truth did little to improve Spike's , he could hardly call the mélange of fruit scents sinister. But if had someone been in his flat, that could be trouble—

_Right. The much-feared Del Monte demon leaves a trail of terror and pear cubes in its wake, and few they are that live to tell the tale. . . . _

Spike shook his head as if to clear it. He cast a glance around the apartment, then carefully examined every surface. Nothing seemed out of place, exactly, but it didn't seem just how he'd left it either.

_Right. Because I'd gone and forgotten to refresh the pot-pourri. _He glared up at the vent in the corner. _And now the neighbours have taken care of that. Thoughtful, really._ Spike grabbed an empty beer bottle from the desk. _Like fuck._

He flung the bottle at the vent but with less than impressive force, and instead of shattering into a satisfying explosion of shards it clunked dully and spewed a few brown chips across the floor before tumbling with a faint thud to the carpet.

Spike threw up his hands and then threw himself onto the bed, burying his head in his pillow. Of course if he just stopped breathing altogether the smell would be less of a problem. But it was _his flat_ and what was the use of your own bloody flat if you couldn't bloody well _breathe _in it if you felt like it?

To prove his point, Spike breathed deeply in preparation for a suitably dramatic sigh when his vampire senses were subject to yet another assault. _Bloody—blueberry? _But no, it wasn't, it was sweeter, more sickly, like plastic would smell if it wanted to be blueberry. And to top it all off, it seemed to make him weep and get hard at the same time.

He sprung up like he'd been stung. It was just too much. It was one thing to ask a man—or a vampire—to fight evil fang and nail, day and night, to work alongside an old rival with a ridiculous hairstyle, to remain half a world away while the woman of his dreams was wined and dined in a very romantic language and remained unaware of his existence.

It was another thing entirely to infuse the one corner of space he could call his own with artificial fruit scents and then, on top of it, program artificial physiological responses to them. Artificial and—wrong responses. So wrong.

"I've got a lot of kinks, but none of them ever leaned toward fruit—well, not _literally—_"

Spike put his hands on his knees and his head in his hands and drove his palms upwards against his nose and sinuses. _Ow. _But it helped for a minute.

_This isn't about evil law firms. This is about a girl. Riley Finn has a hand in this or I'll eat my hat—not that I'd wear one. _

He looked around again, scrubbed his palms against his eye sockets let loose an aggravated growl.

"I need to get out more." He threw a salute to the stains by the vent, "Ta, love. Sorry about the glass, then," and he was out the door in search of something to fight. _Something with a body. Preferably unscented. _


	5. Chapter 5

Joss wrote 'em. Fox probably owns 'em. I got nothing.

* * *

Buffy was just settling into her pizza when her eye the caught the movement of the door across the street.

"Oh, I'm _good," _she said out loud. Maybe Spike was on his way to beat the truth about fruit smells from some unsuspecting lawyers. She hadn't been concentrating on where he went as much as on getting a handle on his comings and goings. But now, it was time for Phase II.

She paused to swallow her mouthful—it was the most solid food she'd eaten in days—and she was on her feet, black bag in hand. "That's right. Off you go, Spikey. And this time, I'll be tagging along right there with you."

Buffy slapped her hat on, spritzed herself with fake Obsession, and in no time at all, she was trailing her quarry down the darkened street. Late as it was, there was still enough activity on the street to mask her footsteps. _My artificially altered and thus completely unfamiliar footsteps, that is. _She smirked. Her black clothes blended with the shadows and she stayed close to the walls and doorways.

_And I, in my fashion-forward Jack Nicholson hat, thought to cover my light-reflecting blond hair. Unlike some vampires I could mention. _

Spike's white-blond hair stood out like a beacon. Buffy didn't even need the Special Ops infra-red field glasses she'd brought. "Stupid fashion-victim vampire," she muttered. Of course, the thought of Spike in a hat made her giggle. She knew it wasn't her best look either, and poly-cotton sweats had never been her patrolling outfit of choice, whatever their practical value. But sometimes the mission had to come first.

She tensed as she saw the white hair duck into an alley.

Buffy quickened her pace. A trap? Had he spotted her? She paused again, every nerve strained in anticipation. Then she heard it, the familiar rhythm. Thud. Swish. Thump. Growl. Spike had found a fight. Scanning the nearby buildings on the lookout for a safe vantage point, she settled on a nearby fire-escape, leapt to the ladder, and scaled to the roof. She hadn't moved that fast in weeks and as she slowed to the edge of the building and looked down, her heart was racing.

Of course it was. Days of espresso beans. Super-human jump. Spike—no more dead than he ever used to be, and decidedly undusty—pummeling vamps in an alley.

The sight did nothing to ease her heart rate. He was right there. She could jump down into the fight with him. Stake a vamp or two. Exchange insults and then maybe blows, then tongues, grinding up against the wall in a frenzy of blood and sweat.

Buffy was itching to do just that when it hit her. Again. He hadn't called. He didn't want her there. He didn't want her to be seeing this, seeing him, touching him, ever. It hit her so hard her head was reeling and she had to step back from the building's edge. She stumbled backwards, blinded by tears.

Buffy sat for a moment, completely senseless. _Is this even happening? _She shook herself. She could still hear the sounds of fighting—some new vamps had shown up, sounded like. She didn't look back. _There's work to be done, Summers. He's busy for a while now. Get off your ass._

_Right. Action. _Buffy flew down the fire escape and sprinted down the street, thick boots clumping loudly. She didn't care. She ran as if she could outpace the pain and unlike most plans of that kind, it worked. By the time she reached Spike's door, her tears had dried and she felt much cooler.

_Jaunty. I feel jaunty. _As she picked the lock, she whistled the theme song to _The Sting. _

_Time for phase three. Just a little page from the Angelus songbook. _

_And then, quite possibly, a nap. _

_* * * * * *_

The fight in the alley had done Spike some good. Blood, dust, garbage, urine, the heady odor of drugstore perfume heightened by fear—the particular aroma of a cheap hooker with a vampire at her throat. Smelled like home to Spike.

More than his home currently did, at any rate.

A couple of times he could have sworn he smelt something like lemon, even flowers. Shuddering, he staked another vamp. He inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with demon dust. "Ah. That's the stuff. 'A little hint of death. That's the awakener.'"

When he'd gone through all the vamps the alley had to offer, Spike walked up to the woman trembling in the corner behind the dumpster. "I don't want trade, but you could buy me a drink," he offered. Anything to keep from going home.

"Not from here, are you? I don't do the buying, hotstuff." She reached into her bag and pulled out a mirror. "Jesus fuck. I look like hell warmed over." She looked up. "You're looking a little pale yourself. But thanks for thinkin' my life's worth the price of a cocktail. Tell you what. Just for that, I'll spot you a forty."

Spike spent the next hour with Fantazia chugging malt liquor in the same alley. "Hell we know it's safe, right? And if we go to a bar I'll feel like I'm working." She laughed into a cough and lit a menthol. "Smoke?"

"No. Thanks. Fresh and minty. No can do. Might have one of my own, though." He reached into a pocket and brought out a crumpled pack of Camel Straights. "No added chemicals or—odors."

"So. You're a real he-man, huh. 'Cept for the hairgel. And dye. And is that eyeliner?"

"Uh. No."

"Look. I'll do you one for free. You look clean."

"Thanks. No. I'm saving myself."

"Right. Homo. Figures."

"No. Really. I have a—I'm . . . with someone."

"She know about this?"

"Uh. No. I'm waiting 'til I deserve her."

"Right. Just tell her you've been out slamming forties in the alley with a working girl. She'll come in her pants. So really. What are you doing out here anyway? You're hot. You know it. You don't need to pay for it. So what is it? Dope? Meth? That crack?"

"Nah. I just get high on life. And, um, helping the helpless—no. The innocent. No. Helping the guilty. Plenty of help for the innocent. I like to help the ones who've been around once or twice."

"Oh." She took another look at the dust settling in the alley. "They were vamps. I kept my eyes shut. But I get it. Demon fighter."

"Well, yeah. How'd you know about uh, demons? Most, uh, people in your line of—"

"Girls on the street? As if demons were the worst of it. Anyway. They're regulars. Have you seen most demons, honey? They _do_ have to pay for it."

"Right. Dumb question. Cheers."

When Fantazia went back to work, Spike paid a visit to the demon bar the surfer vamp had mentioned. He thought he might threaten or charm his way into some more information about the mysterious crack-whore-rogue-slayer-potential Drusilla who'd been asking about him the other night.

Not much doing there, but a slime demon did start emitting a horrific stench at the mention of a friendly brunette who'd been asking about him.

"EPEIOR GHUUUU PHLATTT GBAH!" The demon roared in Spike's ear.

"Wouldn't dream of it, mate. That's right. You wait here. She's all yours." _Thrilled about it, as well, no doubt._ At least after the slime demon's jealousy-spores, the prospect of pot-pourri didn't sound as gruesome as it might. Good thing. Not like he had much choice. The sun would be up soon.

* * * * *

When Spike got back to his apartment, he avoided breathing. He figured the smell must have dissipated, but there was no need to take chances. He paused a minute at the door before going in and turning on the light. Gathering strength.

It was a good thing. Everything was as he'd left it. Except.

On the wall above the bed. Scrawled in dripping blood.

"EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE."

Spike stared. Now that was more sinister.

Maybe it _was_ Dru, after all. It _was_ like one of her little love-notes.

"Irony. Breath. Blood. Vampire. Got it. And you'll be watching me. Very nice. I'll die laughing."

Well, maybe literally.

He turned off the light again and went to the window. It was high on the wall. He needed to stand on a chair to see out, and then it wasn't much of a view. Spike couldn't see any feet that looked suspicious.

Spike slumped back onto the bed and turned on the little reading light. He pointed it at the wall and gazed at the lettering. Well. At least someone cared. In blood. His gaze wandered to the air vent. "I mean, 'sides you, of course, pet."

Blood. But that was a good point. He'd better have a go and see if it was anyone he recognized. He stood on the bed, put his nose right up to the stains, and inhaled.

Strawberry.

Sort of.

_Fuck me. Can't be._

Spike strode angrily to the sink, grabbed a towel and wet it. He went back over to the wall and rubbed on the lettering. It came off easily.

Paint. Washable paint. _Washable BLOODY SCENTED children's paint. Except not bloody at all._

It really was too much. Here he'd been thinking that someone had cared, but they were only mocking him, after all.

Even Fantazia had wanted to pity-fuck him. Until she thought he was gay.

She hadn't even smelt the flat.

Spike lay face down on the bed, motionless. Completely motionless, avoiding all breath. At least Buffy couldn't see him now. _Deserve her. Right. _I bet the Immortal has never been _near_ strawberry-scented children's paint. "I wish," he muttered, "just once . . ."

Suddenly, an explosion near the foot of his bed made Spike start. He breathed inward sharply before he could remember not to. A noxious odor filled his nostrils. He whipped around, immediately on his guard, only to be faced with a very tall demon in long robes emerging from a cloud of smoke.

"D' bloody _Hoffryn_? Mind telling a bloke what the bloody _hell_ you're doing in my flat? Emphasis on _bloke?_"

"Spike." The vengeance demon rubbed his hands together and smiled his most engaging and ingratiating smile. "You don't mean to tell me that you're still living by those outmoded nineteenth-century essentialist notions of gender, do you? You're two centuries behind now. You might at least catch up with your hairstyle."

"Look. Got no clue what you're on about. All I know is, I've got parts that clearly say, I'm no woman, and you've got no business with me. If someone wanted vengeance _on_ me, you'd send one of your minions. Whoever you got to replace poor Anya. Whatever. So piss off. If you don't mind."

"Spike. Be reasonable. As you've gathered, I'm not here to wreak vengeance on you. Someone else has clearly got that order of business well in hand." D'Hoffryn inhaled deeply and made a sympathetic gesture toward the wall. "No. I'm here to recruit you."

"D'Hoffryn. You're off your head. I've got a pair. Big ones. I don't want to have to show you." Spike started unbuckling his belt. "But I will if I have to."

"Now, Spike. That won't be at all necessary. I won't deny that in a strict interpretation of our former policy, the presence of those no doubt formidable gonads would, compounded by your vampiric heritage, have been enough to disqualify you from the service. But this is the twenty-first century. Not only are our expanding American operations putting increased pressure on us to comply with Equal Opportunity legislation, including demonstrating progress regarding gender equity and minorities such as undead Americans, but advances in gender theory call out for a redefinition of the gendered categories that define our recruitment procedures."

"Right. And in English that means?"

"It's very simple," D'Hoffryn paused, turning his palms upward. "In your relationship with Buffy, she had all the power. In this way, she assumed the position of the traditional male of the species."

The demon continued. "As a result, Buffy could hit you whenever she wanted, and for a long time, you were powerless to stop her. She abused, you took the abuse, misinterpreting it as a sign of love because of your past abusive relationships with your vampiric family. She used you for sex, you let her, hoping it would turn to love. She wanted to fornicate and leave as soon as possible with no questions asked and no commitment. You yearned for tenderness and felt a need to talk things out."

He paused. Spike looked down, intensely uncomfortable. "I let her use me for sex because it was bloody brilliant," he muttered. "Any bloke'd do the same."

"Spike. We recognize that you have all the requisite male parts, and the combined wisdom of the past century suggests that you know how to use them with more than usual . . . stamina and creativity. Your sexual prowess is not at issue for us. It is simply that vis-à-vis Buffy, for the intents and purposes of vengeance demon recruitment, you _were_ the woman in that relationship, and Buffy was the man. It's not just about sex. It's about power."

Spike sighed bitterly. It was as if all the fight went out of him. "It's not like I haven't thought some of same things, mate. Really. But it wasn't all one-sided like that. It cut both ways. I was down. I tried to pull her down with me. And I tried to rape her. That's mostly a male thing, you gotta admit. Not proud of it, believe me." He stared at his hands.

"But Spike. While it's true that that little transgression might well have put your name in the queue for the receiving-end of vengeance, thankfully, the rest of your relationship and your own actions in the wake of your violent act more than took care of that order of business. No one, I think, could have dreamed of a more perfect vengeance on _you_ than the return of your soul. Not even my dearly departed Anyanka."

Spike was silent for a moment. "Did she ever do any work with scented paint?"

D'Hoffryn tried to hide a smirk. "I don't believe so."

"I mean," Spike looked up at the wall, "Talk about inspired. Invokes the King of Pain himself, and then, the fake strawberries. You almost have to admire just the barefaced cheek of it."

"Indeed. There are a number of . . . independent contractors doing interesting work in vengeance these days. But I could include you in that category. Won't you consider joining our team? You're already doing some very fine work for us. Why not make it official?"

"Have you gone daft?" Spike looked even more incredulous, if anything, than at the suggestion of his female identity. "I'm not working for vengeance. I'm working for a bloody law firm. We bill by the hour. Puffy-haired bloke in charge. Now. Some of the clients—I can't answer for _their_ motives."

"Wolfram and Hart is in a different category. We are not in competition. I was referring more to your—freelance activities. Tonight, for instance."

"Tonight? Chugging swill with a whore in an alley? Alright. I had a different idea of your methods. I'm in. Load me up with malt liquor and point me toward the ladies of the evening."

"Spike. Your rapier wit—have mercy. I was referring to your saving the woman from her would-be attackers. Have you failed to notice that most of those you help in this way are wronged women? I have no replacement for Anyanka. She is, admittedly, a hard act to follow. But a vampire with a soul who has occupied the structural position of a wronged woman _and _drained the blood of the innocent across two continents for a century would be—a unique and powerful addition to our vengeance arsenal."

"Look, mate. Hookers in alleyways—that's not vengeance. That's just statistics. Who gets attacked in dark alleys more, d'you think? Big burly men with weapons, or strung-out chicks in stilettos? Not hard to figure out from the demon perspective, let me tell you. And as for the other point—every bloody woman is a wronged woman, in't she?" Spike sighed. "_Unlike_ yours truly. Who is _not_ a BLOODY WRONGED WOMAN."

D'Hoffryn moved in closer, sensing his moment. "Leaving that matter aside for a moment, I assure you it wasn't only that particular work I was referring to. As you point out, such methods are . . . crude at best. Your choice in avenging yourself on your abuser, however, was what attracted our attention."

"What are you on about now? Buffy is not _my_ abuser. _I_ tried to kill _her_ for years. And her friends. I stalked her. I tried to separate her from her friends. I tried to break her up with her human boyfriend and I won that round. I tried to convince her she was a creature of the dark. I tried to rape her. Then to top it all off, I moped for months in her bloody basement. Vengeance?!? I took whatever I needed on credit, didn't I? I don't want any vengeance on her. I bleedin' well _died_ for her, and now, I'm not going to fuck it up by going anywhere near her!"

"Interesting logic. But if you will take a moment to reflect, I believe you'll acknowledge that the potential for psychological torture is exquisite indeed. Let her live with the knowledge that you died at least in part so that she could prosper—but deny her long-awaited words of love at the last possible moment."

D'Hoffryn smiled and looked unflinchingly into Spike's eyes. "I'm not sure even I could have surpassed that."

Spike threw his hands the air in exasperation and stood abruptly to avoid D'Hoffryn's stare. "I don't know what wanker gives you your information, but you've got it all wrong. 100 %. Completely wrong."

The vampire began pacing up and down the room as if caged, hand running repeatedly through his hair.

"I wanted her to live. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want her to feel she had to love me just when I was goin' out, or that she somehow had to be—faithful, or . . . beholden. I—"

Spike stopped, his voice torn between triumph and despair. "And that worked, now, didn't it, mate? She didn't bloody well feel she had to be anything of the kind, she's with the Immortal now and doing all kinds of very well. So you and your theories can just sod off!"

D'Hoffryn continued thoughtfully, as if Spike had never spoken at all. "I don't think _I_ could have surpassed it. But _you—_you found a way. Now. I can't give you credit for your own resurrection—but the use you made of it was sheer genius. To withhold the information of your return from woman whose gift of love you rejected as you went to your death—all the while continuing to work side by side with her own ex-lover . . . with whom we know she continues to have—issues—"

"I never rejected so much as Buffy's lint when she offered it freely, and what she doesn't know can't bloody well hurt her, can it?" Spike snarled.

"Well, of course that might be a flaw in an otherwise incomparable plan—were it not that the information was shared by—what was his name? The socially awkward young man with an impressive knowledge of demon languages?"

"Andrew's not gonna—"

"Yes, Andrew. As I was saying. The socially and sexually awkward young man who can't stop talking for thirty seconds together and who has long nursed a fannish obsession with—"

"You can stop right there, mate. Andrew didn't say a word. And if he did, Buffy's over it, isn't she? I mean," Spike looked around pointedly, "I don't see any heartbroken slayers lurking around, do I?"

D'Hoffryn inclined his head as if in defeat. "I must admit that you don't."

"Right then." Spike gestured toward the door. "Don't let me keep you, in that case. If you have any more offers or interesting theories about my personal unlife, feel free to BUGGER OFF!"

But a puff of smoke enveloped the room and the vengeance demon was gone before Spike had finished speaking.

_At least the fumes drowned out the fake strawberry smell._

Spike let himself drop back on the bed and raked his hands over his face. It had not been a good day.

His flat still smelled of fruit salad, now mixed with fake strawberries and the lingering scent of cheap perfume—some must have clung to his clothes from sitting with Fantazia.

He still didn't know who was behind the olfactory fun and games, but apparently they had free access to his flat and an endless supply of fruit scents. Then, on the other end of the olfactory spectrum, he had a dangerously jealous slime demon potentially suspicious of his relationship with a woman he'd never even seen.

And, to top it all off, he did _not_ like the idea that anyone, even a demon so obviously completely clueless as D'Boffryn, could misunderstand his treatment of Buffy as being motivated by vengeance.

When it was the opposite. Spike was glad she'd accepted his sacrifice on his terms. He hoped she was really and truly moving on to a full life with his former rival. He really hoped that.

Mostly.

Except when he missed her so much that it felt like his entire body was screaming.

But that was only every other second or so.

* * *

Hi all! Happy hols to everyone with a double chapter. But when I first posted it--it posted double (not what I meant.) BTW, the "little hint of death" quote is from Charles Bukowski, appears in the movie Barfly with Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway.

In thanks for all the alerts, favorites, etc. Now, um, since it's that time of year,

Dear Santa,

Please send our little fic some reviews. Spike's been trying to be good all year and me, well, at least I've been trying to smell good. And I really haven't had much of a chance to be naughty. But believe me, I know how. If this fic keeps going, maybe eventually I'll get there? So give us some love. Or I'll sneak up to the North Pole and paint Police lyrics on your wall, too. And Strawberry isn't the only scent that paint comes in, Buster, you hear me?

Love, Buffy

And in their stockings, reviewers will get their choice of malt liquor and a hooker or a fashion-forward Jack Nicholson stocking cap. Everyone else gets a gender theory lecture from a vengeance demon . . . well, not really. Hope someone gives you something that you *really* want though, and thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

In my heart, they belong to Joss. But in reality, they might belong to Fox. Wall stains and hookers--all mine.

* * *

By the time Buffy woke up, the late afternoon sun was streaming through the window, bathing the brown stains on the walls in a mellow, golden light. "Kinda makes it worse, actually," she muttered, rubbing her eyes and trying to get her bearings a little.

She felt really different having slept. Not that different was bad. It was just—unclear. Or, more clear. _Huh. Hard to say. _She stretched out in the bed and her foot brushed against the cool metal of . . . the lemon mousse container. _That's right. That's for today. _She began to sit up, but quickly fell back with a groan. _Stupid head. Why push for the hangover without any of the drinking fun?_ She cast an eye on the clock. 4:30. But she'd have a good few hours before sunset to get ready.

_Oh! Dawnie. I need to email Dawnie or she'll think I'm dead. And that would be sad for her, plus she'll send out a search party and I don't want to be found yet. So. Email. Check._

But first things first. Her bag was across the room, so she'd really need to address the immediate problem of getting out of bed. _Go for the gold, Slayer_. Done. Several inches off the pillow, anyway.

_Seize the day, Summers. Boy. The world looks different with a little sleep. You'd think it would look better, but it's lost that cool-shimmer-shiny thing. _

Buffy shook her head and made a little gagging face at the sight of her lodgings, the sun yellow on the brown and beige walls and the orange carpeting. _I'm not sure I'll vacation here again next year. _

She sighed and stretched her legs once more. They didn't go quite as far as she'd been hoping. _They should be more obedient._ She pouted. Coffee would be good right now, but her legs would need to move her out of the door in order for that really good thing to happen. One toe lazily caressed the mousse container. "I wish—"

Buffy waited until the fumes and smoke had begun to clear before finishing her sentence, then spoke the words slowly and deliberately with a full-on sarcastic glare.

". . . that there was a Starbucks in this neighborhood so I could get a decent cup of coffee. But no. I get a demon. Service here really sucks."

"Done." D'Hoffryn was completely impassive as he placed a steaming venti mocha latte on the bedside table next to a surprised but very pleased looking Buffy.

"Wow. Ok. I take it back. The service—definitely on the upswing. I'm even going to wait a minute before I ask you what the hell you're doing here again. Because this?" she took a deep swig, "Is the best thing that's happened to my mouth all week." She paused. "Not that the blueberry soufflé wasn't really deluxe and all."

Buffy licked the foam off her lip and turned her eyes back to the demon. "So. What _is _this, anyway? Vengeance on Juan Valdez? What did the oppressed coffee workers of the world ever do to you—or, me? I mean, not like those coffee beans didn't do kind of a number on my stomach the past few days, but no one held a gun to my head. I'm all free-will Buffy. So what gives?"

"You wished. You were touching my medallion—your wish must be done. It is true I was anticipating something slightly more . . . dramatic, myself. But it is not for me to question your motives at this time."

"Right. Because that would be just _so_ unlike you. And duh, I was _not_ touching any stupid medal—" She felt the cool brush of metal against her toe again and paused, kicking the knotted bedclothes aside with her other foot. "Oh." She pouted again. "I thought it was the lemon mousse. My bad!" She fluttered her eyelashes at D'Hoffryn in a pantomime of innocent apology. "But thanks for the coffee. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to develop a whole new olfactory _palette,_ and time—"

"Miss Summers. Now that I'm here, however, I would wish to reopen the topic of our last conversation—and clarify somewhat my position."

"Must be my lucky day," muttered Buffy, "because the confusion was killing me." She shifted on her bed and looked somewhat sullenly at D'Hoffryn but said nothing to stop him.

"I am pleased that you accept the extravagantly-priced coffee-product as a small token of appreciation for the freelance work you've been doing in the vengeance line."

"I have _not_—" spluttered Buffy, but D'Hoffryn held up a hand.

"But as I was saying, while we appreciate the overall originality and . . . spirit of your approach, it nonetheless—how shall I put this. You've been The Slayer. The Chosen One. You've fought and won against untold armies of vampires, hellgods, even the First Evil. Given that history, has it not occurred to you that your current undertaking and surroundings," and he gestured around at the room strewn with hair care products, deodorizers, and empty takeout coffee cups, "seem a little—how would you put it—_lame_ by comparison?"

Buffy bristled, then colored. She looked intently at the carpet. "Not as lame as you trying to use the word "lame," she muttered.

D'Hoffryn chuckled, then continued. "I'm here because I don't like to see greatness gone to waste. You were The Slayer—unique in all the world. Then, to fight a great battle, you sacrificed your position to empower others to be like you. You raised an army. You commanded an army. My Anyanka was sacrificed, and your vampire—yet you hardly batted an eye."

Buffy glared. She had totally batted, many, many eyes, and what did he know? She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.

"But now. Look at you. No longer unique. So far from it, in fact, that you sit here, alone, all but unhinged, driven to the point of distraction because your boyfriend didn't call. Just as if you were any other girl."

"He's _not_ my boyfriend!" _If he was, he probably would have filled me in on the whole resurrection thing—sometime within six months or so, at least. _Buffy's eyes darkened, focusing inward, and in response to the silence, the demon kept speaking, sensing opportunity.

"But I can change that, Miss Summers. You can be unique again—wholly so. Since before recorded time, there has been the Slayer line. Since there have been humans, there has been the need for Vengeance. But never have the two been joined. I have seen _your_ potential, just as you saw the potential of those formerly weak, helpless girls you raised from obscurity."

Buffy was looking at him open mouthed. He was trying to convert her. Seemed like. Vengeance demon. Her. Flattering, almost, and yet, incredibly insulting. Like she hadn't been ready to bisect one of her closest friends for being one. Hell, ready. She'd done it. He knew. He was there. _That's not it. Can't be. But what's his game? _

"With you at my side, we would be invincible. Never has there been a Slayer-Vengeance Demon: you would be the first, the One—you will make of the blond vampire an example, before which all the world will tremble! Once again, you can defend those weak, helpless women from the men that ravage them and abandon them to fates—much like, with all due sympathy, yours here."

"D'Hoffryn." Buffy's head was reeling, and she was sure she hadn't quite had enough of the mocha to process all of the incredibly wrong things he was saying. "Hold on. Don't let yourself get dragged down by the neighborhood. You have really got to stay off that crack." Buffy's brow furrowed as she tried to piece together her thoughts.

"You are way more clueless than I ever thought. First of all, I'm still a slayer. One of the good guys. I'd kill your kind as soon as breathe, if I could just get at you." She took a deep breath. Probably this would be more impressive if she weren't in bed, but she wasn't sure how threatening her smiley-heart print boxers would look in this situation.

"Ok. I'm mad. Check. I've got some personal . . . demons. Check. But I'm _on vacation_—which I can take now, because we made more of me. . . .us . . . them. Whatever. And so if I choose to spend my first vacation in however many years in a squalid rent-by-the-hour motel . . . _observing _my personal demon, what's it to you? I'm not on company time. And if I was, it wouldn't be yours."

Buffy got out of bed, throwing caution about her non-threatening undergarments to the wind. She was just getting warmed up, and she still had at least half the venti left. D'Hoffryn folded his arms and seemed to settle back in anticipation of a good show. _Well. He'd get one._

"Second, I don't want _vengeance_ on Spike." Her eyes were flashing. "Ok. Yes. I want to get back at him. Teach him a lesson. But I won't need a demon sacrifice to take it back—just an open window and a soapy sponge. I'm . . . _communicating. _And yeah, he _really_ should have called me. But over all? Neither of us winning any prizes for good behavior. Or consistency. I—whatever, it's complicated. But it's also between me. And him. Not Vampire and Slayer. Spike and Buffy. Boy and girl. Like you say."

D'Hoffryn's lip twitched and he raised a hand as if to cough.

"Ok, with a slight side of epic battle and mythic mortal enemy thrown in, and a history of brutal violence and sex marathons, often at the same time, but does that really make us so different from anybody else?"

The cough came and, to Buffy's ear, sounded suspiciously like a chortle.

"Oh, stop with the smug already, or I'll sic the fresh scents on you too. One more thing." Buffy fixed a coldly furious gaze at D'Hoffryn's still twitching lips. "You say 'girl' like it's some kind of disease. And I'm not even gonna start with the 'it's woman to you because I'm of age and all' because my generation doesn't really stress the vocab as much, just like we wear nail polish and shave our pits and wear heels and stuff."

_Focus_, _Buffy. We can save the feminism and fashion lecture for another time. _She took a deep breath.

"But that does _not_ mean I'm going to stand there and let you insult my whole gender and make it sound like we spend all our time sitting around hoping phones will ring while we wait to get rescued! I mean, who the _hell _do you think you are? Aren't you the guy with the all powerful stable of vengeancy women? In your own twisted and incredibly evil way, aren't you on our _side?"_

"Ah." D'Hoffryn began pacing. "Actually, no. I am on the side of Vengeance, and Vengeance only. It only so happens that women tend to _need_ it more than men—or perhaps, merely have fewer resources of their own to achieve it as wholly as they might desire."

"Fewer _resources?" _Buffy squeaked incredulously, "we have, like, seven aisles in Walgreens. You guys have all of one. That is, men. Not demons. Having one aisle."

"True enough," the demon smirked. "I was forgetting the natural advantage you hold in beauty products."

"Well think again! If you had _any insight_ at all, you might have noticed that I'm not exactly here as a Slayer. I haven't used any Slayer powers—no fighting, no beating, no staking. Even the equipment comes from my ex-commando, who still feels guilty for running out on me to find a happy marriage. So. All just _girl_ stuff. And if I'm not wrong, my century-old, slayer-killing, soul-having, world-saving, can't-keep-him-down surprisealiveagain!vampire is feeling pretty uncomfortable right about now. So just put that in your 'girls are pathetic weaklings' pipe and smoke it!"

_Hmm. Not sure about that last image. _

"Ah. Of course, The—_a _slayer is a champion of what you call 'girl power.' I was mistaken. The times you were robbed of your Slayer strength—during the Council test, for example, when your Watcher weakened you—that was a joyous time of—great empowerment for you?"

Buffy breathed in sharply, pained even at the memory of what it had felt like, trapped in a blind alley, screaming pointlessly for help, screaming like a—

D'Hoffryn continued. "Then there was a certain time, if my information is correct, in your own bathroom, after you had been injured in a fight—"

The demon's sentence was cut off by an airborne lemon mousse can that narrowly missed his head. It was followed by a medallion, which he caught. She had picked up another canister as if to throw it, too, but she paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately, gesturing with increasing energy with the blue-lidded aerosol.

"D'Hoffryn, if women need more vengeance, it's not because they're weak. It's because men, in which category I include _just this once_ male demons, are so FULL OF THEMSELVES!! Because they think they KNOW ALL THE ANSWERS when they haven't got a CLUE!!"

She shook her head, then fake-smiled brightly. "Not that I mean, you know, you." She held up the canister and sprayed directly at her visitor. "Oops. That's gotta sting."

"Indeed. Mountain freshness and hospital wards. How could I have imagined you needed any supernatural assistance with such weapons at your disposal?" D'Hoffryn wiped his eyes. He had exchanged smug amusement for some sharper demonic wrath, though its expression was constrained. His voice was steel, although his words were still marked with an almost unctuous formality.

"With the vampire across the street sampling the highlife, as he has been, his integrity so compromised by an overabundance of self-confidence, it was only natural that you would feel the need to . . . bring him down a few pegs. For his own good, of course. A lesson, as you say."

D'Hoffryn gathered his cloak about him as Buffy seemed poised to spray again, but then he paused and turned to face her once more. "It _had_ seemed to me of late that commitment to the pedagogy of ritualized humiliation had rather fallen off—but I myself have long been a practicing adherent of this methodology. It is always a pleasure to find others who share my faith. Good day, Ms Summers. I'll be pleased if you reconsider our offer of a more . . . stable arrangement with Vengeance. "

The lingering Lysol did its best to combat the noxious fumes generated by D'Hoffryn's exit, but with only limited success. "Stable, my ass," grumbled Buffy.

Well, actually, it was pretty firm. _But off topic, really. _

Buffy shook her head. She was having some trouble focusing. She couldn't remember what pedagogy meant, but she had a feeling he hadn't said anything very nice about her with it.

She sighed and slumped down on the bed. Despite what she considered to be some effective come-backs on her part, her conversation with D'Hoffryn had left her a little disheartened. Confused. She knew she'd been right in most of what she said, but she had a horrible feeling that he might have been right about some things as well, somewhere in there. The worst thing was, she had no idea which part, and as she considered each one in turn, each seemed worse than the last.

_Dawnie. Shit._

Buffy grabbed her bag and fumbled for Riley's untraceable Blackberry device. She whipped off an email to her sister.

"Hi, Dawnie, hope everything's ok. As for me, I've been hanging out mostly on my own, doing a little shopping, but I have had a few chances to be social. One guy seems to be showing a lot of interest, but of course—the wrong one. He never shuts up and has a real problem with B.O., actually. He might even want to hire me for his company, but I don't think I'd like kind of work they do. Then I've been kind of checking out this other guy, a total hottie, but I don't even think he knows I'm alive."

_Or vice versa. _

"But maybe I'll figure out a way to show him."

_Pretty sure I will._

"Basically, I'm just spending a lot of extra time primping and enjoying being a girl."

_Take that, D'Hoffryn!_

"Hope you don't mind my not saying where I am—I'm just having more fun being irresponsible! It's giddy. But let me know right away if anything is wrong or you need anything, because the irresponsibility thing only works for me if, you know, I'm all responsible about it. Yours in logic, Buffy. PS. I love you!"

_There. And almost 100% of it true. It's a kind of art form._

Buffy glanced at her watch. 5:30. _Lordy. Time flies when a demon's trying to get you to join his evil minions and wreak havoc on the guilty. Now why didn't _that_ become the catch-phrase? _

_Let's see—wash that D'Hoffryn right outta my hair. That's probably a double shampoo and a cream rinse, at least. _And_ develop a whole new scent ensemble for this evening. _

She drained the last of her cool coffee and leaped into the bathroom. Work to be done.

* * *

Reviewers get a demon-delivered caffeinated beverage of their choice


	7. Chapter 7

Just try and profit from my wall stains and GenderStudies!demon, dammit! Go ahead. Make my day. But other than that, I own nothing and someone else does.

* * *

When Spike woke up, the first thing he saw was the writing on the wall. "Right. Watching me. Quite the show you're getting, then, aren't you? Hot, hot, hot. Play your cards right, you can see me warm my pig's blood." The late afternoon light was filtering through the edges of his curtains, but not strong enough to cause any problems.

With a heavy sigh, Spike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. His head was pounding. Hunger. He made his way to the two burners and sink that made up his kitchen, pulled out a pan, and took a plastic bag out of the fridge.

He looked toward the window—or maybe there was a tiny hidden camera somewhere. "Yeah, nestled right in with the sumptuous furnishings and wall-hangings," he muttered. "Well, wherever you are, this one goes out to you—for all those little things you do to me."

Spike took a deep bow, and began to sway his hips to an imaginary beat.

"Let me entertain you—" One hand on hips, one pointing flirtatiously to the window, Spike sang. "Let me make you smile, I'll show you some tricks—" He twirled the bag in his hand like a piece of discarded clothing. " Some old and then some new tricks—" He ripped the bag of blood open with his teeth and blew the bits of plastic from his mouth in seductive _moue._ "I'm very versatile," and with a flourish, he emptied the contents of the bag into the pot heating on the stove.

"All right, move along folks, nothin' more to see." He gave the blood a little stir. "But if you're real good . . ." Spike twirled the spoon in is fingers and flipped it in the air, watching with satisfaction as it splattered a tiny pattern on the wall above the stove. _More bloody like it._

". . . I'll open a beer and have a drink of it." He poured the blood into a mug and went over to his desk. _Least I could do if they're goin' to all this trouble. _

He rifled through the papers on his desk, looking for a sheet of numbers. _Should check in with Angel and Hart, I suppose. _He grabbed one, fingered it, pushed it away.

"Hell with it. If they want me to suit up for an apocalypse, they can bloody well page me. Til then, I'll leave the boss to play corporate Machiavelli and Blue to her bug-eyed stares. Least for tonight."

_Beer. _Spike looked thoughtfully toward yesterday's jeans hung over the back of the chair. He reached around and started going through the pockets.

"Why bloody not? Could do with a spot of company."

* * * * *

Buffy stepped out of the bathroom, black-suited and smelling seven different kinds of, er, different._ Ok, so it's not the best line, but it is totally true. Beer_ shampoo. Musky overtones. She eyed the lemon mousse splattered over the wall where the canister had exploded after missing D'Hoffryn's head. She shrugged. _It can keep the semen company. _Moving toward the window, she grabbed her bag and rifled through it in search of some saltine crackers to nibble at. Food might be in order at some point, but now she needed to watch.

It looked quiet across the street. The evening sun was still just smudging the sky, but the lights were on inside. Still in, she decided. Not too late.

Just then, the lights went out. Buffy tensed, poised and at the ready. Sure enough, the door opened and the vampire climbed the few steps to the street. To Buffy's horror, he turned and looked directly at her window.

She didn't move. She had only been watching through the cracks. She hadn't touched the shade.

He started off across the street. Coming directly for her. He'd seen her. It was over.

The lamplight played off of his cheekbones, accentuating the lights and shadows in his face. He looked intent. And beautiful.

Buffy remained frozen in place. Cringing inside. It wasn't how she'd planned. She couldn't see him. Not yet. Not this way. Not on his terms. If he'd wanted to decide the terms of their meeting, he should have come to _her._ To Rome, or at least to the phone. _Not across the stupid street to the stupid hooker hotel_. _Stupid Buffy._

He was already across the street.

Wait. _Stupid_ Buffy. He was still a vampire. It was still her room, and she was sure she'd never invited him in. She ran to the door and double bolted all the locks. Her breath came hard. She was sweating.

She heard his footsteps in the hall. She would know them anywhere.

Buffy backed away from the door. Could he hear her heartbeat through walls? Would it still sound like hers even after the venti mocha latte? She ran to her bag and pulled out a fistful of espresso beans and stuffed them into her mouth. _Eew. _She gagged. She spat some back into her hand. Wiped it on the bedspread. Stood stock still, heart pounding, caught between window and door and trying to occupy the least visible and audible place the tiny room could offer.

The footsteps stopped in front of her door.

_Fuckfuckfuck._ Buffy held her breath.

The knock came. "It's me. You ready for me?"

He had got to be kidding.

Another knock. "Oi, it's me. Open up. I know I'm a bit early, but turns out I was just across the street the whole time!" He paused, listening. "I'll make it worth your while. Got some whiskey."

He sounded wheedling, teasing. Light.

In other words, evil incarnate. He was mocking her. She'd rethink the whole vengeance thing. Maybe D'Hoffryn had a point.

Because she was sure, at this moment, as sure as she'd ever been of anything.

That he had never loved her.

Or at least, that he had the worst sense of humor in the history of vampire kind.

And for either, punishment was probably in order.

* * *

Reviewers get . . . oh, wait, Executrix got this mini chapter posted early cause she said *exactly* what I wanted to hear and really, all reviews probably inspire Spike to do another bitterly ironic striptease . . .


	8. Chapter 8

If Joss really owned these characters, no one would be making a #$) Buffy movie remake without him, would they? I don't own them either but I'm totally building a mass media empire with my royalties from Fantazia. Not.

* * *

Spike was getting impatient. "C'mon, then. It's not like I _need_ this. Just stopped by for a chat." _I can bleedin' well _smell_ you, for chrissakes. _

At this, Buffy forgot about standing still and made for her bag, fumbling in the dark for a stake. It was beyond love, or humor, or anything tolerable for even one second more. _Fine, I'll open the god damn door. It's not like I need this either. Unbelievable heartless bastard. _ She clenched the stake until her knuckles grew white and moved slowly to the door.

A door opened in the same hallway. Buffy heard a raspy voice call out, "Yo, England. Over here. You've got the wrong door, rocket scientist. Leave that poor crackwhore alone."

"Oh, _there_ you are, mate. Sorry. I could have sworn." Spike inhaled deeply. _Well—so many smells—not all of them bad—blood, semen, cum, fear, desire. But a heavy dose of food and deodorant smells as well. Easy enough to get a bloke confused. Especially the way my week has gone. _He turned to Buffy's door. "So sorry, then. My fault," and followed Fantazia's beckoning if mocking gaze down the hall.

Fantazia smiled a slow, appraising smile. "'Bout time. I need a drink. My 9 o'clock looks like a no show, so I'm all dolled up with nowhere to come."

Spike threw her a look but held out a bottle. "Well, Fantazia, I can help with the first part, at least."

In her room, Buffy heard footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Her fingers loosened, letting the stake fall. She felt a flood of relief, followed quickly by resentment and something so close to disappointment she preferred not to look at it at all.

_Ok. So. Knocking at my door, but not looking for me. Fine. Better than fine. Good. Not looking for me, but for the hooker next door. Fine. What could be better? Why should he come and see _me_ when there's a perfectly good hooker right here in the same hallway? Why waste your time calling stupid old Buffy when there are whores right in your neighborhood that could do the same thing? _

Buffy was breathing so hard she began to feel light-headed. _Calm. Maybe he's helping her. Maybe she's helpless. Or hopeless, or whatever. It's not like Spike needs to pay for it, anyway. _

_There are all kinds of perfectly good reasons that men go to visit prostitutes that have _nothing_ to do with sex. _

It occurred to her to try to find out. Buffy held her ear to the wall. She thought they'd gone next door, but all she could hear was voices and the occasional clinking of glasses. She worked at measuring her breath. At least, from what she remembered, that wasn't what sex with Spike sounded like. Nothing was breaking and there were no screams.

She had a more sensitive listening device from the Initiative. She could use that. If she really wanted to know.

_If I really want to know exactly what it sounds like for Spike to have cheap sex with a prostitute when I've come halfway across the world to see for myself that he's actually alive but didn't call me and when I myself haven't had sex since the time he tried to rape me—I could know right now. _

Instead, she sat on her bed, put her face in her hands, and cried very softly until she heard a door open again. She looked up, sniffling.

"Right, then. I'll look him up for you, put the fear of God—or, you know, of something very scary—in him right fast. I know the place. Not many bars for the tentacle crowd, even in this town." Spike sounded jaunty and walked past Buffy's door with a spring in his step and without so much as a pause.

Buffy counted the boot steps down the hall, wiped her face briefly and sprang into action. She knew the bar too. She could get there and still do a little recon. Recon. She patted her black bag. _Back to commando Buffy._ _Maybe we could just have a little apocalypse, just to simple things up some. _She froze and looked around quickly. "And that would be in the category of speculative musing, _not_ wish!" she out loud, very loud, just in case anyone besides the stains happened to be listening.

In the hall, Buffy paused and thought back to the sounds and footsteps she'd overheard before. Taking her best guess, she knocked on a door just down the hall. "Fantazia, please open up. I'm your neighbor. I really need to talk to you. You might be in danger." _Well, if you don't open the door, you definitely will be._

"Listen, girl. I got nothin'. Sorry. Can't help. Busy.'"

"It's not that—I mean, I don't want, um, what you think. Drugs or whatever. I just need to ask you something. Please. Hurry. It's about my . . . friend. I think he was here. I need to know, it could be trouble." Buffy had a hard time keeping the quaver out of her voice, but in the end hoped it might help.

"You that scrawny girl from down the hall? New in town? Strung out like a motherfucker?"

"Um, yes and no? But yeah, that's probably me, without the . . . stringing."

The door bolts slid slowly open, then the door. "Suit yourself. Come in a minute, but I've got an appointment." Fantazia strolled through the room, walked over to the mirror and removed the blond curly wig she was wearing. Her own hair was shortly cropped, tight, glossy looking curls. "Mr 10 o'clock likes it all natural. Earthtones. Right. Takes all kinds, I guess."

Buffy watched Fantazia's preparations for a moment. "Ever use Carefree Curl?"

Fantazia turned and regarded her with an expression of bemused scorn. "Is this some kinda cross-cultural encounter? Beauty survey? Yeah, I used it. Are you done?"

"Did you like it? Cause I think it kind of flakes off."

"Yeah, I'm more of a pomade girl myself. But really, I'm not sure Carefree Curl is right for your—hair type. Isn't there something for, you know," she looked Buffy up and down, "color treated blondes? Cause that shit'll fry your hair. Guess you know all about that. It's why I went to wigs—blonde without the blisters. There. Glad to help. See you around."

Buffy shook herself. "That's not why I'm here. I was just—distracted. I need to know why . . . I lost my—this guy. Really lost, like—you can't imagine. And he could be dangerous. I was looking for him, I came all the way to LA. I think he was here. I—I just need to know if, what he was doing here."

Fantazia raised an eyebrow at Buffy from the mirror. Without turning back around, she spoke slowly. "Girl, guys pretty much visit Fantazia for one thing. And it isn't really so that I can tell their girlfriends all about it, either. If your boyfriend's here, maybe you need pointers in something besides haircare, know what I'm sayin?'"

Buffy shook her head. "He's _not_ my boyfriend. And I don't need sex lessons—never mind. It's not about that. He's—he can be dangerous. He's—not like other people."

"Damn. Dangerous? If you can't trust tricks, who can you trust? And here I thought working the streets in LA was going to be my ticket to meeting all those nice, safe men my mama promised me, before my stepdaddy beat her senseless."

"No, I mean—look. He was just here. If he—if you, ok, this is going to sound crazy but he's a—vampire. So you shouldn't sleep with him, because, you know, biting, and, blood, and. . ."

"What, you mean England? So you guys got some kinda bottle-blonde thing going on I can't play into? Cause I got the wigs . . . Listen, I don't know what kinda game you're playing, but he's no vamp. I'm off vamps_._" She looked at Buffy with a more thoughtful expression.

Buffy was silent, trying to process. _Wait, if she doesn't know he's a vamp, then he didn't sleep with her, because she would have noticed the low body temperature at least and why does this have to make me happy_? "Oh." She stalled, hoping something sensible to say would make its way past her sudden, irrational relief. "So. You . . . know about vampires?"

"Yeah, vampires, demons, whatever. Sorry to burst your bubble about the whole innocence of prostitutes thing, but that's just a myth." Fantazia seemed to soften. "Listen. England. He _saved_ me from vamps. I offered him trade but he didn't take it. Said he was 'proving himself.'"

Buffy swallowed hard and tried very hard to not to wonder what—or who—he might be proving himself _for._ She shook herself and tried to come through with a derisive snort at the idea.

Fantazia shrugged. "Yeah, right? He's a homo, way I figure, didn't even want a blow job—plus, talk about haircare products!"

Buffy nodded, amused in spite of herself. But not for long, because Fantazia, her back toward Buffy as she tissued layers of make-up off her face, kept talking.

"He's going through _something_, that's for sure. Said he didn't even expect to be around anymore, and it threw him that he was. Said he'd only been with one woman all year, some blonde named music or charmin or some shit, and he couldn't even finish it with her—even with the whole blonde thing going on. I'm tellin' you. Homo. But hey, who's prejudiced, y'know? he helped me. I owe him—so I can't tell you where to find him if he don't want to be found. I'll tell him you stopped by—"

But she was talking to the empty air, because Buffy was already gone.

* * * *

Spike scanned the smoky depths of the demon bar. It was a little rank, even for him, he had to admit.

_Still beats the fruit scents, mind you._

There he was, looking for a Fyaral demon in Nazi leather regalia and a bad attitude. Felt like old times—except that William the Bloody was here to teach him a lesson about manners to the ladies. Of the evening, no less. The lesson: no scrapes and bruises you don't pay for, and no spitting into the ones you do. Apparently it causes AIDS-like lesions that scare away the other customers.

_What a brilliant bloody mission. But why should the innocent have all the champions? Leave them to Angel and his convent fetish. _

It looked like the lesson in business ethics would have to wait, because not one of the night's nasties answered the description Fantazia had given him. On the other hand, he did see the slime demon he'd spoken with about his mystery woman. Poor wanker looked to be sitting at the same stool he'd left him at the night before, slouching deeper and deeper into whatever mess passed for slime demon liquor.

Spike felt a tug of sympathy. He'd clearly got it bad. _Been there, mate. Not for, you know, several minutes, but I remember._

He approached the demon and ordered a scotch for himself. "Rough night, mate?"

The demon shook his head and raised his glass, bringing it down again with a heavy thunk. "OOORK m'FWA G(KWF, OOORK m'FWA G(KWF, I _KNOW_ OOORK m'FWA G(KWF!!" The demon pounded with his fist and sunk deeper into his drink.

Spike downed his drink in a single gulp and pushed back his stool. He knew this scene as well. "She's comin' back, mate? Then I guess you'd best wait right here." The vampire got up quickly and edged to the door, suddenly remembering the demon's earlier reaction to his questions—in particular, the stench of the jealousy spores. _And really, enough olfactory stimulation for one glorious day, I'd say. _

***

From the roof outside the demon bar, Buffy watched the entrance, her form black clad and still, every muscle taught, waiting.

Here. This. Now. All her preparations. For what?

There were not words for the rage she felt. No, actually, she thought, there was one word. Not charmin or music. Close, but—

The word was—

Harmony.

* * *

AN: Reviewers get. . . shots with a lovesick slime demon? Haircare lessons from a prostitute? Fresh scents? Well, gee, this chapter seems really light on attractive enticements . . . but, really, reviewers will get to see Buffy confront Spike all the sooner.


	9. Chapter 9

Whoever owns Buffy owns it. I own "compare to Buffy by Whedon."

* * *

As soon as Spike walked out of the demon bar, he missed the stench within. Because as soon as the outside air hit his nostrils, it brought with it—

Citrus. Flowers. Dime-store perfume. Some kind of beer smell layered over by soap—no, by sodium lauryl sulfate. Pain—laced with plastic blueberry. Envy—no, "compare to Envy by Gucci." Cheap substitutes. Never the real thing.

Film noir starring the Avon Lady instead of Ingrid Bergman.

Harmony instead of Buffy.

Wrong. So wrong.

He took a deep breath, in through his nose. The scents were different, but the _idea_ was the same. The same degree of…_wrongness. _Whatever—whoever—it was, it knew his haunts. It was following him.

Spike laughed bitterly. Two could play at that game. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Bring it on, Avon," he snarled.

"Huh, gotta rhyme." He shook his head. "I've still got it."

Easing his way into a casual slouch, Spike strolled blithely out of the doorway, suddenly the picture of nonchalance. He sauntered down the street, heading for the nearest alley. He hummed under his breath—"Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it/ I wanna destroy passers-by"—which he certainly did. Some more than others.

Spike looked calm. But he was seething. _Seething._

It wasn't as if he was asking a lot of the world. Just to be left alone. To drink and stew in peace. Maybe to fight evil now and again--or at least to defend the maybe a little less evil than the other side. To dream of Buffy and try, night after fetid, sordid, paint-stained and pig-blood-filled night, to figure out what would have to happen for him to be able to say it. To be able to say without fear of disappointing her, "Look, pet, I'm not dead anymore—but that's not necessarily a bad thing."

The thing was, since when she'd last seen him, he'd literally gone out in a blaze of glory, saving the world and denying her love like the noble prick only she could bring out in him—Buffy wouldn't be so impressed with his track record of helping the guilty, whether in the law firm or in the back alley.

But still—he could dream.

He couldn't bloody dream, though, with berry-scented pop-songs springing up on his walls at all hours of the day or night. The assault with fresh scents was too much. It was belittling. It was fiendish, cruel—and totally lame at the same time.

It had to finish. It ended here, in this alley.

Spike paused, as if to light a cigarette, but really to listen. Then he heard it. A heartbeat, fast and a little uneven. Human, he thought, but something was off about it. Even still, he felt a strange sensation in his own limbs, as if the ghost of a pulse was trying to quicken in response.

The pace of the heart was too fast. Child?

Pity, that. Or perhaps—atypical human—but still. No hope of a fight unless . . . rogue slayer.

He thought back to the last one, the psychotic bitch who'd sliced his bloody hands off. Literally, his bloody hands, what with being sliced off and all. Thank God for satanic lawyers and their laser surgery technology. Strike that--maybe not God's department, satanic lawyers.

Still. Might be more like that out there, and there were some parts he was none too keen on having rogue slayers _or_ laser technology get any where near.

He snarled as an old King Missile song snaked its way through his head. Sod off. _Detachable Penis, my ass._

_Scratch that last comment, actually_.

But. Rogue slayers. A possibility. There were armies of them now, apparently. Too soon, then, to relax totally.

His heightened senses were attuned to every rat and mouse that twitched in the alley, to every passerby—those he wanted to destroy and those he didn't—to every slightest gasp of breeze.

_Where was . . . whatever it was?_

Behind him, to the right and . . .up? Again there was that strange flicker in his limbs, now reaching to his chest and—his groin. His entire body felt . . . alive. Itching for the fight, or . . . something.

On the roof, then, scaling down a fire escape. The twang of boot on metal echoed in the cool evening air and mingled with the tang of . . . fruit.

Bloody hell.

Just get it over with.

His body was tense, but he kept the meandering pace, trying every bit to look as casual and innocent as any other unsuspecting blond in a dark alleyway at the wrong time.

He heard another twang of metal, but this one—ahead of him. He shook his head. _How was that possible? _Somehow Fruity Pebbles had gotten the jump on him.

Mesmerized, fascinated, and extremely pissed off, Spike watched a black form drop from a fire escape about twenty yards ahead of him. It landed almost silently despite the height and took off running, far too fast. Too fast for a human. But the form looked—bulky. Too bulky for any Slayer he'd known. One thing about Slayers, they didn't tend toward the chubby.

In fact, she—he—it—looked too bulky to be running anywhere _near_ that fast. But it—she, he thought, it _had_ to be, a hint of female arousal hit him even mingled and masked with. . . . mountain freshness? Hell. It made him _ache._ But he couldn't place it.

Whoever it was, though, was clearly getting off from running away from him.

Spike took off. So much of this was familiar, the stale beer, stale cum, fresh rat piss. The garbage piles flying by as he ran past them. The _reek_ of adrenalin in the air.

And then, the rest of it that made _this_ alley his special hell. The fresh, fruity parts. The artificial musky parts. The twisted, horrible, treelined mountain medly parts. Foreign laced with familiar, odors that _never _should have been familiar but were getting that way.

It made him furious, which sped him on. What made him even more furious was that he was turned _on_ by it.

No, not that. It must be the alley, residual memories of feeding, fighting, insulting Buffy. Getting beat up by Buffy. Being left for dead by Buffy. Yeah, any of that. That, or the chase. That, or the vague sense of déja-vu his dumpy yet incredibly fast quarry was giving him.

Any one of those memories or some combination of them all, a combination that absolutely excluded fresh scents.

Because fresh scents did not now, nor ever would in the future, cause a man reaction in William the Bloody.

Spike put these thoughts in the back of his mind, needing his concentration. He was gaining on her, whoever she was, but the breaths his body kept taking out of habit drew the horrific combination of scents deeper and deeper into his lungs, either through his nose or his mouth, which was worse, because he could _taste_ them there. He fought to keep from breathing, but it was not only exertion, but desire and rage that kept him panting.

At last he was within striking range. He leapt forward, closing the distance between himself and his quarry, his tormentor in a single bound.

In a second he had her pinned facing the brick wall. She felt tiny underneath her clothing—the clothes were ridiculously large, bulky, cheap sweats and polyester hat. There was no reason, no reason this non-outfit should be a turn-on, but he couldn't help pressing himself slightly into her as he leaned into her ear. "Quite the chase, there, wasn't it. I love a little run before a kill. Now suppose you tell Spike what the _bloody hell_ you think you're playing at."

He knew he sounded menacing, could hear its effect. The heart beneath the black was racing even faster than before, and in seconds, Spike could swear his was too. The smells, the sounds were all wrong, but a lock of blonde hair fell from the black stocking cap and made his heart that was not beating skip a beat nonetheless. He shook his head. His memory, the scene, his slayer obsession, all playing tricks. Something was off, though. There was no struggle, and then, before he knew it—

She whipped around, turning in his grasp. She smiled, gooey, and dewey-eyed, and sweet.

"Spike," she cooed, sweetly surprised, "you're back!"

Spike could not form words. Everything was still, everything was moving. Slayer. Not rogue. His. Her. His her.

She'd been—what was she doing here? Was she also stalking the—fruit-scented stalker? Incognito—but she smelled—awful, it wasn't her, he was losing his mind. She never sounded sweet. She never smelled—like this. She never looked dewey-eyed—except maybe in his dreams.

That's it! He'd been wrong. He _could_ bloody well dream. And he was dreaming again, but that sodding fruity stalker had even messed up the way she dream-smelled.

He shook his head. Suddenly something flickered behind her eye. It looked—extremely pissed off. That made something in _him_ flicker—in hope, in want, but then she shifted back to sweet again.

Still, it didn't do to just stand there gaping. A bloke should greet his dreamgirl, even in his dreams.

"Buffy?" he whispered, his voice soft and wavering.

"Spike?" she said sweetly, too sweetly, and then shifted in his grasp. She moved her hands up gently over his chest.

It felt amazing. Her hands were on him. On _him._ He looked at her.

Was this real? She looked thin, _felt_ thin, even under the completely nondescript and unfashionable clothes she was wearing. The stain on his wall was thin too. Had someone in the demon bar drugged him? Was he hallucinating? But she felt so real.

If it _was_ real, must be an incognito assignment, he thought through his shock. And her heartbeat—it was all wrong. He'd recognize that rhythm anywhere—and this was not it. If he dreamed her, wouldn't he get that right? Was she sick? Was that what had brought her to LA? Or was there some new danger? Was it his stalker? Was it more dangerous than he'd thought? Was she here to warn him? Protect him?

No—she didn't know he was alive. Well. Less dead, anyway.

Right. Now she did. Did she look happy to see him? She did. That was wrong. What was wrong? Was she a fake? A better Buffybot? The First Evil again, taunting him by taking her shape but somehow gone all corporeal now? All of these thoughts fired through his brain but over and around and beneath it all there was just the sensation.

Her hands were on him. _Her_ hands. On _him. _He didn't care, then, what the explanation was. "Buffy," he whispered, closing his eyes.

And then he was flying backwards fast and hard across the alley. He landed hard on pavement. Buffy landed hard on him.

Buffy was _there_, straddling him, eyes flashing and pissed off. Tired looking. And a little crazy. The ugly hat had fallen off and her beautiful blond, Breck girl hair was—well, a little hat-headed, maybe, but beautiful and blond as ever. Mouth big and curving. Face too thin. Didn't matter. Never did. She was everything he ever wanted to see.

Her eyes tore into him like they wanted to eat him whole. Then they shifted, mocking, then cold rage. She ground herself slightly into his hips as she shifted positions, as if settling in. Spike fought back a sigh. _Not just any dream, then, the good kind._

Quick as lightning, Buffy pulled a stake from the pocket of her coat and held it poised above his heart.

"Spike?" She shoved the point a little into his t-shirt. Smiling widely with a side of crazy in a voice that was happy, girly, snide, and flat-out furious, she explained, "I'm back, too."

* * *

AN: Thank you so much for the reviews and the favorites and alerts and communities. That's so much fun! A word to chapter length, which some of you asked about: This fic has short chapters, mostly. That's just how they come. I write chapters in what seems to be the natural length. In my Breakfast Club fic, I have chapters that are literally 6 or 7 times this long sometimes, and hence the updates are much slower. So, it's not that I oppose long chapters. Lots of people do, as it happens (as I've learned) but I personally love them. I'm just not feeling them right now in this fic. If I do, though, you all will be the first to know.

But for now, reviewers get not just any dream, the good kind, starring Spike or Buffy, whatever floats your boat. So her awesomeness zanthinegirl should be having *quite* the active nightlife. Thank you so much!


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